


are you worth it?

by wonseokie



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Gen, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-19
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-08-28 15:58:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16726461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wonseokie/pseuds/wonseokie
Summary: on days like today, minseok asks the world: are you worth it?





	are you worth it?

**Author's Note:**

> i hope minseok knows i love him

_**sabláy** _

> The [sablay](https://static.rappler.com/images/sablay-mark-sherwin-bayanito.jpg) draped across the body is part of the official academic costume of the University of the Philippines officially adopted in 2000 after its first appearance in UP Diliman in 1990.

_**sabláy** _

>   _To miss the target; to be out of sync_.

 

i.

_are you really worth all this pain, all this suffering, all this effort?_

all for a glorified piece of cloth, a glorified title, a glorified mandate.

he’s tired, and he doesn’t even know why. his peers tell him, _you have so much to fight for_. but does he? all he has to show for it are tear tracks and an empty chest cavity. it feels like everything has been taken out of him, as if his heart, his very _soul_ , has been gouged out of his body, and in its place there’s a vast emptiness, a blackhole, a void.

when his parents call him, he smiles and cheerfully tells them, _yes, it’s almost over! i’m almost done!_ and none of them, not even himself, has realized that he has never specified _what_ is almost over, _what_ he’s almost done with. staring at the blank canvas of the ceiling of his bedroom, he begins to realize… maybe, it is _this_.

this crippling fear, this unending sadness. the swirling questions of _what now what next why go on how to move on_. he does not remember when he didn’t feel this way. has never _not_ felt this way at all? was he born like this, then? born with the pain, the sadness, the emptiness, the fear, the void? maybe he was, and he has always been destined to be nothing more than just this, a husk of a human being, going through the motions. a machine, a puppet of the universe; to make up for a past sin, maybe. or as a vessel of darkness to make sure that someone else could be happier.

his back aches. it’s been bothering him for a while, his spine. it’s been a while, maybe the good part of six years. he does not have the wherewithal to move. his mind has fixated itself on a piece of cloth, a sash, wrapped around his torso, the darkness that filled him when he touched it for the first time. the _certainty_ that the first time he has ever worn it, the photoshoot, will be the only time he ever will.

he closes his eyes and pictures it in his mind. he can see it clearly—the image of it, one of the oldest woven, displayed at the national museum. a reminder of the history behind those who hold it, a glorifying image for those who wish to wear it. he does not dare to touch, not even in his mind. instead he asks, _are you worth it?_

the cloth doesn’t answer. it continues to stare at him in all its historical glory—the mannequin it was hanging off of morphing to all the people, good and bad, known and unknown, brave and not, who has been graced by its weight. who it has rewarded, for their strength and wit and capabilities. he sees a younger version of himself, beholding it for the first time; thinking, _this is what i sacrificed all my dreams for_. a younger version of himself he has deluded into accepting it as a goal.

he hasn’t anything left to show for it. there is no drive, no motivation, no energy, not even _resignation_. there’s simply an empty room, and his voice echoing back and forth. _are you worth it?_

each fiber woven into the being of the sash is a testament to the pain that its wearer has been through, in their pursuit of its blessing. he has always seen it as a cruel mistress; a mother demanding nothing but the best from her children; a nation, begging for what it never should be. there must be people out there who willingly give themselves, their dreams their hopes; he wonders why he couldn’t be one of them. every step he has taken closer to touching it has been a war against himself, a war against the world around him. _are you worth it?_

the cloth still doesn’t answer, but it beckons him closer. it demands everyone who sets their eyes on it to come closer, to look forward, to not look down or back or sideways. _there’s no other way but this,_ a disjointed voice says. he wonders if it’s the cloth, finally speaking; but it sounds too much like the disjointed voice of the world, his mother, the media, the country. it demands your attention, your effort; it demands near perfection, and you can’t look down. maybe if people were more careful they’d see that they were close to stepping off a cliff. _are you worth it?_

no matter how much he asks, no matter how loudly he screams, there seems to be no forthcoming answer. all the cloth does is stare back him, as if challenging him to answer the question himself. but he can’t, he just _can’t_ —he has been asking himself that question every day of the past four years and he hasn’t gotten an answer yet. according to the people he knows, it’s worth it; worth every drop of blood, sweat, and tears. worth every sleepless night. worth the heartache, the sacrifice.

_are you worth it, worth all of it?_

there is no epiphany, no eureka moment, no world-altering realization, when he opens his eyes again. he’s still the same lost boy, lying with an aching back and an even more painful heart, seemingly the only unmoving object in a world that continues to thrive around him. the clock on the wall at the foot of his bed continues to tick, the sun continues to beat down on the asphalt outside his window, his friends go on with their lives, and his family continues to believe he is heading somewhere. the piece of cloth symbolizing his life, what has been his past, his present, and what makes up his future, remained pinned at the back of his eyelids.

it continues to remain silent, a sentinel, a beseeching force beckoning him, reprimanding him for looking down. it never speaks, or answers his questions. it remains a mystery that thousands seek to solve.


End file.
